Skies of Gold Are Fleeting
by Ebyru
Summary: It was in the way he asked, and asked, and fretted and asked for the simplest thing: tea with Daisy. Like he was the greatest burden ever created.


**A/N:**

Where to start...  
1) I only know the movie - from 2013  
2) I saw this during the weekend and fell in love, and had SO MANY FEELS. I just had to write  
3) this is un-beta'd because I'm impatient  
4) so sorry if the language doesn't stick to the timeframe, or if the characterizations seem off. ;-;

* * *

It was in his smile; in the way he softened when he looked at Nick – even that first time. It was as though he thought of Nick as an extension of Daisy. It was in the way he asked, and asked, and fretted and _asked_ for the simplest thing: tea with Daisy. Like he was the greatest burden ever created.

It was in the lines around his mouth when his smile went away; in the way his eyes seemed glossy and far off in the distance, surrounded in a jade-green light by the bay. Daisy made him happy, Nick could tell, but by extension, she also gave him enough grief for a century.

One night on his front porch, catching sight of a shooting star, Nick decided that he would give Jay Gatsby anything he needed. Until the day he could have whimsical Daisy.

XXX

Nick had woken up late for work, and there was a cab parked in front of his home before he had a chance to call. Gatsby waved from his window, and Nick could almost hear him saying _You don't want to be late now, old sport._

XXX

After another of Gatsby's parties – his means of Daisy finding her way to him – Nick stumbled down the driveway, towards the garden. Gatsby was standing amidst the bushes, wiping the wrinkles from his suit.

"Did you enjoy yourself, old sport?" he asked, wearing a smile brighter than all of the fireworks and all of the stars in the sky.

Nick attempted a nod, but suddenly felt lightheaded, tripping backwards through the grass. Before he could catch his footing, Gatsby was pressed behind him: one hand holding his wrist, and the other against his side. Warm and firm.

"Careful there," he said, "You wouldn't want to die before you get back."

He sounded so much softer than he'd been all night, entertaining lavish guests and rowdy folk. Whether it was conscious or not, his fingers were slowly curling into Nick's side.

Nick leaned forward to stand on his own, but Gatsby didn't let him go. "And why not?" he asked Gatsby.

"Why, because you'd miss all the grand shows I have planned," he whispered, his words like spinning silk threads.

It made him feel dizzy again. He turned to face Gatsby, taking a step back when he noticed they were only a breath apart. "Is that all?"

Gatsby let his arms fall away, smoothing his hair down on one side nervously. He didn't look up at Nick when he replied, "No." Maybe he couldn't.

"Then what other reason do I have?" Nick asked, challenging his neighbour like he wouldn't without the drinks churning through him. He swayed with the buzz they provided, feeling a warmth coming off of Gatsby. One that seemed awfully tempting to be near.

His eyes crossed when Gatsby leaned forward. He held Nick's face with one palm, the other sliding its way up Nick's side, where it had been resting not long ago. "Our friendship," he murmured, kissing the corner of lips and cheek.

To Nick, it spoke of something more intimate than friendship.

Gatsby pulled away abruptly when Nick's eyes fluttered open. He cleared his throat. "Let me walk you home, old sport."

XXX

The next time Nick saw Gatsby, he was safely hidden up in his tower of solitude – at the top of the world – looking down at the glamour and lechery of his party. The burden of being that high above was the distance between him and them. Most guests didn't even know who he was; couldn't pick him out of a lineup; wouldn't be able to identify the body in a morgue.

Nick liked to think himself an exception among the guests. Gatsby waved to him again from his window, as if he sensed the thought. But this time he gestured for Nick to go up and join him - in his sanctity.

It was early in the evening, and no one had begun breaking champagne flutes yet. Nick held his glass of whiskey in both hands as he made his way up to see Gatsby, stair by carefully tipsy stair. He didn't want to be the first to create a mess that night.

He nearly made it to the very top, nearly home free of embarrassment and drunken clumsiness, when, as if Gatsby saw through walls, he threw open the door of the study in greeting. Nick was so thoroughly startled with his disarmingly white smile, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, that his glass shattered between their feet. He felt the whiskey soaking part of his pants before the rest landed on the edge of his shoes.

Gatsby frowned when he glanced down; Nick gulped, his fingers clutching at something that no longer existed. "I'm really sorr—"

Without a snap of his fingers, someone behind Nick – someone dressed in a penguin suit that he hadn't even heard walking on the steps – bent down and began to clean the mess. Gatsby led Nick by the crook of his elbow inside the room.

"Be careful there, old sport." He kneeled down in front of Nick, sparking a sudden quiver beginning in his toes and landing like a grenade between his thighs. Gatsby continued to smile as he pulled a handkerchief from the front pocket of his powder blue suit. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt tonight either," he said, glancing up at Nick.

He patted the staining alcohol off like a servant might: meticulous, careful. Nick tried to step away when the white fabric approached too close to the stirring he'd been trying to hide. (At least until he got home.)

Nick tugged at the collar of his shirt nervously, saying, "Gatsby, you're ruining your suit." He could mask his nerves with friendly worry, right? He tapped Gatsby's shoulder a couple of times to get his attention. "I can have them cleaned tomorrow."

"No need," he told Nick, tugging the pant leg forward, allowing the growing bulge to be inconspicuous a moment longer. "And I have plenty of suits, old sport. This is the least I can do for making you come all the way up here."

"_Making_ me?" Nick said incredulously, his voice cracking. He shook his head, smiling shyly as he admitted, "No, I was glad to be called up to see you."

Gatsby shook out his handkerchief, resting it against his knee. "Is that so?" His smile took on a predatory quality; a sultry little twist of lips that had Nick's knees shaking. "I'm certainly glad to hear that."

XXX

Nick held Gatsby close as they rutted against each other, him below and Gatsby above. He would always be just a tad lower than Gatsby; he had a sparkle about him, a gem in his heart that was reminiscent of the pyramids and Greek gods. He was worth so much more than his money and parties, if only everyone else bothered to see.

"Nick," he moaned, moving against him frantic and desperate. "I- I never meant to take it this far." He sounded so guilty for his actions, like he was the only one responsible for them being in bed, wrapped in each other without a stitch of clothes.

"I wanted this too," he told Gatsby, humming when he nibbled along his jaw. "I want to give you everything, _Jay_."

Gatsby seemed flustered momentarily, his movements getting wilder, less controlled and more restless. "You mean it?" he asked. So softly, so very quiet in comparison to the naked need in every inch of his body, that Nick almost thought he'd imagined it.

"I really do," he said, tangling his fingers in blond hair. "What do you need from me?"

Gatsby groaned in response, his length rubbing and brushing along Nick's erection, catching between his spread thighs. They became slicker with pleasure and sweat; the world seemed to tilt on its axis for them, allowing them to come together in a single perfect moment. To feel nothing but heat and want.

Nick squeezed his eyes shut tight, and Gatsby kissed his brow, down his temple, along his cheeks. He ground his hips harder, faster; his breath sped up and he whimpered Nick's name, digging his nails in the pillows behind his head.

"Look at me," he said to him. "Look at me. That's what I need."

And when Nick did, when his eyes slowly opened and he saw Gatsby – his shiny, golden skin; his eyes crinkling from a grateful smile; his lips swollen with teeth marks – an eruption is what proceeded.

He cried out Gatsby's name. _Jay, Jay, yes._ _Jay. _Each one separate but all meaning the same 'I want to keep this.'

Gatsby panted in Nick's neck, lapping his tongue against the salty tang on his collarbones and chest. Nick stroked his hair, trying to smooth it back into something more respectable for a man such as him. He moved to try and catch Gatsby's mouth when his lips where dragging against his jaw-

But something had changed.

He got up; got dressed; gave Nick a change of clothes; and went back to stand in front of the window in a flowery robe.

"Good night," Nick said.

Gatsby tilted his head politely, not adding a word.

XXX

In the end, Nick couldn't figure out if it was because of her – Daisy, who he wanted; who he'd collected riches for; who he survived the war to be with - or because of himself, and everything he had said. Maybe he'd offered too much in Gatsby's bed.

Maybe not enough.

Nick never brought it up; and they never kissed again. Even that afternoon, when Gatsby looked wretched and young like a boy, broken over having witnessed a young girl's demise, Nick didn't share his pool. Because it wasn't his bed.

And it would never be again.


End file.
